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PUBLISHER'S  NOTE. 

THE  Yale  Series  of  Younger  Poets  is  designed  to  afford  a  publishing 
medium  for  the  work  of  young  men  and  women  who  have  not  yet 
secured  a  wide  public  recognition.  It  will  include  only  such  verse  as 
seems  to  give  the  fairest  promise  for  the  future  of  American  poetry, — 
to  the  development  of  which  it  is  hoped  that  the  Series  may  prove  a 
stimulus.  Communications  concerning  manuscripts  should  be  addressed 
to  the  Editor,  Professor  Charlton  M.  Lewis,  425  St.  Ronan  Street, 
New- Haven,  Connecticut. 

VOLUMES  ISSUED,  OR  PLANNED  FOR 
EARLY   PUBLICATION. 

I.  THE  TEMPERING.  By  Howard  Buck. 
II.  FORGOTTEN  SHRINES.  By  John  Chipman  Farrar. 

III.  FOUR  GARDENS.  By  David  Osborne  Hamilton. 

IV.  SPIRES  AND  POPLARS.  By  Alfred  Raymond  Bellinger. 

V.  THE  WHITE  GOD  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  By  Thomas  Calde- 
cot  Chubb. 

VI.  WHERE  LILITH  DANCES.  By  Darl  Macleod  Boyle. 


The  White  God  and 
Other  Poems 


THOMAS  CALDECOT  CHUBB 

n 


NEW  HAVEN  •  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON  •  HUMPHREY    MILFORD  .  OXFORD    UNIVERSITY    PRESS 

MDCCCCXX 


rt 


COPYRIGHT,    192O,   BY 
YALE  UNIVERSITY   PRESS 


THE  author  makes  grateful  acknowledgment  to  the  Horae 
Scholasticae,  the  New  Republic,  the  S-for-N,  the  Yale 
Literary  Magazine,  and  the  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS  for  per 
mission  to  reprint  here  such  poems  as  have  already  appeared 
in  their  pages. 


646522 


TO 
MY  MOTHER. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

LYRICS  AND  SHORTER  PIECES. 

Song •          •  13 

Colchis •          •  H 

Clytemnestra       .          .          .          .          .          .          .  16 

Our  Ship   .          .          .          .          .          •          •          .  18 

The   Olympia      .  .          .          .          .  19 

Ultima  Thule     .          .          .  .          .          .  21 

Challenge  .          .  .  ...  24 

Lost  Love  .          .          .          .          •          •          •  25 

A  Meeting 

I.  The  Man  Recalls—    .         *.          .          .          .  26 

II.  And  She— 27 

Reminiscence        .          .          .          .          •          •  28 

Merlin        .          .          .          .          •          ...  29 

The  House  of  God       .          .          ....  31 

Repristination      .          .  •.          .          •  33 

"Arma  Virumque — "    .          ...          .          .34 

"Ancient  to  Othello"   .          .          .          .          .          .  35 

Violinists    .          .          .         V.          .          .  3^ 

A  Chinese  Painting •  37 

The  White  Road          .  ....  38 

Song  for  Sainte-Anne  des  Monts  ....  40 

Forest  Clearing  .          .          .         ..          .          •  41 

The  Metropolis  .          .          .          ...          •  42 

Windy  Night      .          .          .          .          .          •          -44 

The  Wind  .          .          .          .          ...  45 

Song  .          .          .          .          .       '   .          .          .  46 

September   Song  .          .          »          .          .          •  47 

On  a  Gloomy  Day       .          .          .          .  .  48 

Prelude       .          .          .          ...          .          .  49 

Pastoral 50 

Swimming  at  Night      ......  51 

Winter  Sea •  52 

Sonnet --        •  53 

To  a  Platonist •       '    •  54 

Peace:  A  Memory        .          .          .          .          .          •  55 


Peace                     .  .  .  ,  .  .          .  fi 

After  Combat      .  .  .  .  .  .  ry 

NARRATIVE. 

The  White  God  .  .  .  .  ...  59 


10 


LYRICS  AND  SHORTER  PIECES. 


SONG. 

I  THOUGHT  of  song  as  a  trivial  thing, 
A  toy  for  my  hand, 
A  glittering  pendant  of  tinsel, 
A  handful  of  sand, 
— But  lo !  I  have  striven  to  sing  and  song  is  a  terrible  brand ! 

I  dreamed  of  song  as  a  pleasaunce 
To  lighten  the  hour, 
A  catch  of  the  leaves'  refrain, 

And  earthly  dower,  , . ,  „  , 

— Behold!  The  heavens  fall  down  and 'the  sky  is  cracked  by 
its  power! 

I  longed  for  song  as  a  stream 
That  would  splash  for  me, 
A  ripple  adown  the  hillside, 
A  melody, 

— And  now  it  is  one"  with  the  river  and  the  river  has  flowed  to 
the  sea ! 

The  mountains  arise  at  its  sounding, 
The  sky  is  dark'd  with  rain, 
And  the  lands  that  were  sunk  in  the  ocean 
Stand  up  again, 

— But  the  heart  of  the  singer  is  broken  for  song  is  more  bitter 
than  pain ! 


COLCHIS. 

(An  Argonaut  Speaks.) 

YES  !  I  can  remember  the  hopeless  seas, 
Our  dripping  oars  that  beat  to  foam, 
The  tortuous  blue  Symplegades, 
And  our  distant  pale  home ; 
The  fog  that  crawled  in  from  the  gray 
Uafeeling  s^ejep  ef  some  Dacian  bay; 
And  Aeolus  shrieking  over  all ; 
^-This  like  a  ghost,  I  recall! 
With  night  f.fter  starless  night  of  pain, 
And  day  after  drizzling  day  of  rain ; 
And  terrible  conflict  where  the  rocks 
Lifted  like  Titans  against  the  sky 
To  shatter  us,  and  appalling  shocks 
As  our  helpless  keel  grated  by; 
Tugging  that  reddened  our  horny  hands, 
Sweat  that  blurred  the  hills  into  bands 
Of  color ! — We  must  have  quarreled  too, 
For  I  can  hear  loud  jangling  words, 
— Strident  as  hovering  harsh  sea  birds — 
And  our  fingers  were  bleeding  and  blue ! 

The  promontory  at  length  we  cleared ; 

The  loud  gale  left  us ;  north  we  steered, 

Northward  then  eastward  into  a  haze 

Coppery  in  the  sun's  quenched  blaze; 

And  so  we  drifted  for  many  days — 

Days  that  were  worse  than  the  strangling  night, 

For  the  fog  oozed  a  venomous  blight, 

And  the  creaking  strakes  grew  spongy-green, 

And  the  scum  of  the  sea  had  an  oily  sheen. 

Then  just  at  dawn  the  navarch  died. 
I  remember  we  cast  him  overside, 
Spinning  him  out  with  a  lifeless  swing ; 
There  was  one  white  flash  of  his  livid  face. 
Then  plop !  died  the  ugly  waves  in  a  ring, 
With  not  a  ripple  to  mark  the  place ! 

H 


And  after,  for  three  days  white  and  blank, 
We  pitched  and  rolled  like  a  rotting  plank. 
Till  all  my  senses  swooned  away.  .  .  . 

In  a  dazzling  flash  came  return  of  day ! 

And  I  heard  Jason  laugh  and  shout. 

Then  a  trample  of  feet  and  a  clattering  rout 

Of  triumph — paeans  and  windy  hymns. 

Today  my  memory  breaks  or  dims 

To  recollect  that  exultant  hour 

When  I  saw  the  sunlight  redly  poured, 

And  the  land  before  like  a  sparkling  sword, 

And  the  toppled  hills,  and  one  marble  tower 

Of  Colchis  afar ! 

And  I  know,  from  then 

We  lashed  at  our  sweeps  with  more  strength  than  men, 
And  the  waves  streamed  past  us  in  hissing  fire, 
And  our  galley  moved  to  the  chant  of  a  choir ! 

O  the  strange  craft  that  seemed  as  friends 

In  our  wildered  relief  that  the  voyage  ends ! 

And  the  weird  dusk  folk  that  blackened  the  shore ! 

And  the  cry  of  welcome,  a  hideous  roar ! 

That  we  loved  as  we  did  this  ominous  place, 

And  the  sinister  cliffs  of  the  awful  haven ! 

Why  even  Medea's  evil  face 
Seemed  richly  and  cleanly  graven ! 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

HELEN,  HELEN!  'seemeth  thou'rt  too  fair; 

'Seemeth  thou  art  too  fair,  too  beautiful, 
My  little  sister!  Now  the  gusts  blow  free 
Thy  loose  robes,  and  I  think  thou  art  too  fair, 
Too  fair,  too  sadly  fair.  Each  balanced  line 
Sweeps  in  a  modulated  symmetry, 
Each  thin  fold  of  thy  dress,  each  sculptured  limb — 
But  O  what  sculpture  hath  the  dangerous  fire 
And  fervor !  'Seemeth  men  crowd  round  and  blood 
Heats  for  thy  touch,  and  thy  fair  face  so  cool 
And  warm  and  glorious.  'Seemeth  strong  men  rise, 
Made  passionate  and  noble,  and  despairing 
And  treacherous — yea !  these  things,  these  shall  be 
In  multitudinous  men !  And  'seemeth  towers 
Burn  like  brave  beacons  red  against  the  sea. 
And  thou  dost  weep,  and  thou  dost  then  forget 
The  little  laughing  things  thou  say'st  to  me. 
And  thou  dost  sudden  grow  noble  and  sudden  grow 
Haughty  and  far  and  full  of  proud  desires 
That  none  may  know  and  live.  And  thou  dost  stand 
Later,  the  withering  South  Wind  in  thy  hair 
Still  bright  with  one  bright  poppy,  and  dost  see 
Paris  lurch  down,  and  lustful  Menelaus 
Reclaim  thee  with  a  leer ;  and  thou  dost  turn 
To  him,  and  all  the  shrivelling  years  grow  blank, 
And  thou  dost  pale  beside  him,  and  dost  forget 
The  sunlight  on  our  faces,  and  these  flags 
Rippled  by  the  gusts  as  we  walk  hand  in  hand 
Today,  my  little  sister, — ere  the  world 
Drags  in  upon  us.  And  then  thou  dost  die, 
Unmindful  of  thy  beauty,  and  these  things, 
Unmindful  of  thy  life  and  love  and  me.  .    .    . 

" .   .   .  O  Helen,  Helen,  Helen !  thou'rt  too  fair, 
Walking  beside  the  lake  with  me  today. 
Beauty  is  God,  the  poets  sing.  I  sing 
That  too  much  beauty,  too  much  God  is  death. 
And  death  is  pain,  and  soul-obliteration. 

16 


Pity  is  me !  Thou'rt  beautiful,  and  I 
Who  walk  beside,  foreknow  the  ruining  hand ; 
Foreknow  that  thou  and  earth  and  god  are  death ! 
And  death  is  earth  and  thee,  O  Helen,  Helen !" 


OUR  SHIP. 

FAIREST  spruce  for  the  hull, 
Shaven  and  planed, — 
We  fashioned  her  beautiful — 
Evenly  grained ; 

Pine  for  the  spiry  mast; 

Sputtering  oak 
Heaped  for  the  forge's  blast ; 

— Our  sledges  spoke ! 

Staunchly  we  built  her — proud, 

Shapely  and  swift; 
Her  bow  the  waves  would  crowd, 

Frothing  to  lift. 

Bull's  hide  we  scraped  and  sheared, 
Bull's  thews  we  trimmed — 

Little  the  gale  she  feared, 
Powerfully  limbed. 

Last  on  her  gashing  prow, 

Brazen  and  dire, 
Hammered  a  beak;  and  now 

Trued  it  with  fire. 

Then  down  the  blazing  ways 

Into  the  sea, 
Launched  her  with  all  our  praise 

Wonderfully. 

Fitted  her  out  with  men, 

King's  sons  and  tall ; 
Loud  was  the  song  that  then 

Rose  from  us  all. 

Into  the  western  mist, 

Wake  fire  to  burn, 
Sailed  she.  .    .    .   Some  yet  persist 

She  will  return ! 

18 


THE  OLYMPIA. 

AL  through  the  rusting  shipyards  the  bated  whisper  runs — 
Wars   and   rumors   of   fighting,   battles,   and   men,   and 

guns; 
From  the  creaking  rudders  below  them  to  the  weathered  masts 

of  the  ships, 
There's  a  thrill  and  a  new-born  ardor,  and  a  talk  of  war  on 

their  lips. 

The  sound  of  the  chattering  hammers  the  city  echoes  awoke: 
In  the  stir  of  the  dreadnaughts  fitting  out,  the  old  Olympia 

spoke — 

"Well  I  remember  that  evening — the  time  I  headed  the  line — 
The  moon  was  under  a  jagged  cloud,  and  the  air  was  chilly 

and  fine. 

Onward  we  swept  through  the  mine-fields  with  never  a  lan 
tern  to  burn, 
And  never  a  sound,  a  whisper,  save  the  murmur  around  our 

stern. 

A  reckless  battery  saw  us  and  loudly  it  voiced  its  ire: 
Mind  ye  how  sharply  I  silenced  it  in  a  storm  of  shot  and  fire. 

"Well  I  remember  the  morning.  Unrippled  the  streaky  bay; 
The  graceful  palms  by  the  water  lifted  against  the  day; 
The  yellow  banner  of  Philip  challenged  the  yellow  sun; 
Till  I — ah  how  I  remember — fired  my  warning  gun. 

"All  through  the  placid  morning,  over  Manila  Bay 

My  spinning  shells  went  screeching  up,  onward  upon  their 

way. 
The  thin  white  splashes  slopped  upward,  as  the  shattering 

hail  beat  down. 

A  ceaseless  roar  the  hills  awoke  over  the  drowsy  town. 
Their  ships  and  the  forts  gave  answer,  but  little  I  recked  their 

guns— 

Who  fires  the  truest  never  is  hurt;  nor  firing  oftenest  runs. 
My  guns  belched  noisy  anger  and  their  clamor  was  not  in  vain : 
For  they  sent  the  fleet  of  the  Spanish  King  under  the  Spanish 

Main." 

19 


The  hammers  ended  their  tapping;  the  whistles  called  off  the 

men; 
And  as  the  dreadnaughts  swept  to  sea,  I  heard  her  speaking 

again — 

'  'T  is  hard  for  the  aged  and  rusty  when  war  sweeps  over  the 

land! 
'T  is  hard,  when  others  are  fighting,  for  one  who  has  battled 

to  stand! 

My  eight  inch  guns  are  useless,  but  I  pray  that  I  still  may  go, 
If  not  to  another  'Manila  Bay,'  to  a  splendid  grave  below/" 


20 


ULTIMA  THULE. 

THE  sun,  a  carmine  dagger,  wounded  the  eastern  mist ; 
The  sea,  an  implacable  mirror,  glittered  with  amethyst; 
And  red  dawn  raced  out  fiercely  over  the  restless  sweep, 
As  a  keel,  a  stern  war-keel  moved  out  to  the  burnished  deep ! 

Purple  her  sails — they  were  woven  out  of  the  glory  of  dream — 
Threaded  with  light;  and  their  pattern  aflame  with  irradiant 

gleam. 

Her  oars  they  shone  of  silver.  Her  wake  was  a  boiling  gold. 
And  she  surged  toward  the  high  loud  ocean,  where  a  leaden 

ground-swell  rolled. 

And  what  seeks  she  ?  In  the  distance,  some  white  and  fabulous 

land? 

Curving  palms  on  the  hillside*?  Amber  wonderful  sand*? 
Where  does  she  go*?  To  cities  splendid  with  regal  worth, 
Starred  with  topaz  towers  hewn  from  a  lavish  earth*? 

Palaces  crumbling  and  draughty,  where  only  a  poppy  blows, 
Sleepy,  nodding,  immortal,  tinted  of  flaming  rose, — 
Where  day  is  a  fiery  halo,  and  night  is  a  clear  blue  wine, 
Fragrant,  intoxicating,  sparkling,  crystalline*? 

Shall  the  Indian  shore  allure  her,  the  temples  of  dusky  kings, 
Marble  fretted  with  silver,  as  a  white  peacock's  wings  *? 
Or  the  slow  melodious  whisper  of  a  breeze  near  Pacific  isles, 
Where  the  bay  is   rippled  with  laughter,  the  shore  is  lovely 
with  smiles*? 

Now  as  she  clears  the  headland ;  now  as  she  stands  to  sea ; 
Speak,  O  voices  prophetic !  Where  shall  her  questing  be  *? 
For  one  pale  moment  she  fluttered,  sails  of  shivering  light, 
Dead  on  the  anxious  ocean,  dead  but  gorgeously  bright ; 

Then  on  the  helmsman's  face  there  showed  a  glance  such  as 

sea-hawks  wear — 
The  peering  eyes,  the  flinchless  gaze,  the  smile  of  the  hearts 

who  dare ; 

21 


And  he  leaned  on  the  glinting  oar  that  guided  the  straining 

keel, 
And  the  craft  leaped  madly  forward  to  fly  as  the  gray  tern 

wheel. 

North ! — North  into  the  whirlwind ! — North  to  the  mocking 

gale! 
Toward  the  lash  of  the  driven  snowflakes  where  the  scourged 

sea-dogs  quail ! 

Saw  he  no  ruby  towers  *?  Longed  not  for  softer  land  *? 
Aye !  But  a  tenser  power  gripped  and  directed  his  hand ! 

Only  a  rocky  island,  drenched  in  the  wildering  maze, 

Gray  through  the  wreathing  blindness,  gray  in  the  ghastly 

haze! 

Iron,  frigid,  vacant — under  the  frozen  sky; 
Where  the  souls  of  men  become  faded,  their  bodies  shrivel  and 

die! 

Not  for  a  princely  people ! — Mad  Cimmerian  tribes, 
Eyeless,  unhuman,  horrid,  meet  him  with  loathsome  gibes ; 
Not  for  its  argent  waters ! — Gray  and  unlovely  the  waves, 
Heaving  sullen  and  formless  over  the  formless  graves 

Of  the  men  who  have  striven  and  lost,  of  Viking  souls  who 

have  dared, 
— Comets   snatched  by  the  hungry  void  whose  brilliance   no 

longer  flared ! 
This   is  the   land  he   sought:   not  for  the   treasure   't  would 

bring ! 
The  helmsman  was  of  toughening  bronze,   and  wealth  is   a 

chilly  thing. 

But  rather  to  go  where  others  have  not,  to  conquer  where  all 

have  lost, 

To  battle  the  frenzied  hurricane  while  Hope  is  a  naked  ghost. 
Such  is  the  power  that  drives  him  into  the  torturing  gale; 
This  is  the  rugged  goal,  this  the  desired  Grail !  .   .   . 

22 


So  the  bright  ship  moves  onward.  The  tarnished  water  gleams. 

Over  the  vasty  somber  space,  a  liquid  sunlight  streams. 

And  all  the  sea  is  a  molten  glow  in  the  imagery  of  her  dreams. 


CHALLENGE. 

A  DIZZY  battalion  of  bronze  leaves 
Flickered  from  the  branches  that  brush  the  eaves ; 
While  the  black  wind  that  hurried  after 
Reeled  with  an  idiot's  empty  laughter. 
.    .    .  And  I  who  stood  in  the  square  below 
Swayed  with  each  eddy  to  and  fro 
Like  a  quivering  mast  in  the  hurricane, 
Till  my  face  was  blue  with  cold  and  rain. 
At  last  I  coughed  and  rasped  my  throat 
To  shatter  forth  a  trumpet  note: 
"Come,  friends  of  mine,  the  bellowing  gale 
Has  ripped  the  clouds  as  it  tatters  a  sail. 
See !  In  the  west  a  sword  of  blue 
Pierces  their  chilliness  through  and  through, 
And  the  sun  will  burst  in  a  yellow  haze 
To  dazzle  the  hillsides  and  amaze. 
Swift !  Harness  your  mount !  We  shall  ride,  ride,  ride 
Over  the  saffron  countryside. 
There  are  serpents  yet  to  be  taught  our  fear, 
And  each  of  us  couches  a  magic  spear. 
On !  youth  is  ours  and  hearts  of  flame 
That  leap  at  the  sound  of  a  warrior's  name ; 
So  let  us  leave  our  Camelot 
As  Gawaine  or  Sir  Launcelot, 
Or  Geraint  for  his  entrancing  Queen. 
Over  the  moor  and  behind  that  screen 
Of  enchanted  forest  we  shall  find 
Adventure  on  each  flaw  of  the  wind — 
A  dragon  with  his  blackening  breath, 
A  giant  with  the  arm  of  death, 
A  dark  knight,  glowering  by  the  moat 
Of  the  keep  where  he's  hidden,  lonely  there, 
A  damozel  with  amber  hair 
That  twists  like  a  vine  about  her  throat. 
Come !  ride  on  the  gale  with  me,  my  friend ; 
We  shall  find  romance  at  our  gallop's  end !" 

".    .    .  Ah  yes,  I've  mounted  my  horse!"  he  cries, 
"But  the  dust  o'  the  road  swirls  up  in  my  eyes !" 

24 


LOST  LOVE. 

'VT  o  !  I  have  not  seen  her  again !  .    .   . 

After  that  week  of  sleet  and  rain, 

You  remember,  one  evening  the  sun  broke  through 

A  rift  of  the  clouds  too  dripping  blue, 

And  shivered  its  gold  from  a  hundred  spires, 

Where  the  west  was  smoky  and  hot  with  fires ! 

— That  night  a  something  in  me  shattered, 

I  know  not  why !  and  nothing  mattered 

Save  that  I  fling  from  my  cage  and  go! 

Anywhere,  anyhow !  So  to  and  fro 

I  clashed  the  flags  with  my  stupid  pacing, 

And  sent  the  hot  blood  through  me  racing; 

Until  a  new  surge  flooded  in, 

And  I  turned  toward  the  town  with  a  heart  of  sin. 

And  there  I  walked,  insane,  unknowing 

Whither  my  crazy  course  was  going ; 

Brushing  the  people  with  tired  faces, 

Leaving  the  wind  in  its  giddy  races ; 

With  only  that  sense  of  a  terrible  need 

To  chasten  my  heart  in  a  burst  of  speed ! 

How  long  I  strode  thus  I  cannot  tell, 

When  suddenly  (O  a  silver  bell 

Rings  me  back  in  memory!) 

I  saw  her  pass  me  wonderfully. 

An  amethyst  brooch  caught  the  color  of  night, 

And  her  dress  was  satin  and  faced  with  white. 

I  remember  this ;  and  remember  too 

That  her  delicate  look  sent  a  shiver  through 

My  madness.  Then  she  was  lost  in  the  crowd ! 

Gloom  drooped  upon  me  as  a  shroud, 

And  I  turned  to  my  lifeless  room  in  pain !  .    .   . 

No !  I  have  not  seen  her  again  !  .    .   . 


A  MEETING. 

I.  The  Man  Recalls— 


i 


T  was  a  bleak  day,  raw  and  dun ! 
Grim  sun-dogs  mocked  the  hazy  sun ! 


.   .   .  We  met  in  secret  on  the  hill, 

Beneath  that  withered  gaunt  ash  tree 

Whose  branches  like  dulled  ebony 

Whipped  overhead  against  the  sky 

And,  witch-like,  creaked  most  crazily. 

We  met  in  secret;  none  were  nigh 

To  see  us  toss  aloft  and  spill 

The  heady  wine  of  youth.  (Alas 

That  these  white  hours  should  ever  pass 

So  bitterly,  burning  on  the  brain 

Only  a  memory  of  pain 

To  rankle!)  There  we  had  our  fill 

Of  earthly  love,  cheek  close  to  cheek  .    .    . 

And  many  hours  passed  until 

The  twilight  west  began  to  streak 

With  fire.  Then  she  rose  and  smiled, 

And  left  me  as  softly  as  she  came ; 

And  all  the  sunlight  seemed  to  flame 

From  the  jade-clasped  circlet  round  her  hair, 

And  her  glowing  cheeks,  ah  goddess-fair ! 

As  she  turned  with  a  nod  that  spoke  me  clear 

"Tomorrow  night — I  shall  be  here!" 

And  then — just  her  presence  me  beguiled*? — 
As  she  flaunted  from  sight  behind  the  trees, 
I  felt  a  tremor ;  and  my  knees 
Grew  weak.  A  queer  revulsion  jarred  on 
My  senses.  I  could  never  pardon 
Myself  for  silly  things  I'd  done : 
O  there's  no  respite  to  be  won 
From  this !  The  trees  seemed  hideous  hags, 
Disfigured  by  the  touch  of  sin ; 
The  scraggly  thorns  they  wandered  in, 

26 


Sharp  venomous  scorpions,  stinging  back; 
The  rocks,  gnarled  withering  dragons  black 
And  scorched. 

O  now  the  world  drags,  drags ! 
And  still  above  the  hilltops  dun, 
Grim  sun-dogs  mock  the  hazy  sun ! 

II.  And  She— 

1. 

And  if  he  does  not  come  again ! — 
After  all  I— 

He  will,  that's  plain ; 
For  hear!  The  bird-note  on  the  bough; 
And  the  clouds  have  ceased  their  spatter  of  rain ! 
As  if  man  could  belie,  there  is  Nature's  vow ! 

2. 

Such  chance !  We  might  never  have  met  at  all ! 

If  I  hadn't  walked  beyond  the  wall 

That,  moss-chinked,  crosses  the  pastury  hill, 

A  ruinous  thing — just  a  month  ago! 

Just  a  month  ago !  and  the  very  hour 

He  happened  to  choose  our  road  to  pass. 

I  remember  a  wind  shook  beads  from  the  grass ; 

And  through  ragged  clouds,  sunlight  'gan  to  fill 

The  whitening  sky,  though  day  ended  slow ! 

And  yet  some  still  grumble  there  is  no  Power — 
Will  see  not  the  sun  behind  clouds  that  lower, 
Will  count  not  clear  days, — only  shower  on  shower 
That  April  bestows  on  the  opening  leaves. 
And  I  might  have  missed  him ! 

— Well,  one  believes! 


REMINISCENCE. 

So !  Tonight  the  city  is  spread  like  a  dream  beneath  me, 
Or  a  dusky  etching  traced  by  the  master's  hand ! 
And  the  wind  in  the  elms  has  a  sleepy  song  to  bequeath  me, 
But — it  blows  from  the  land ! 

It  blows  from  the  land,  and  I  am  a-weary  of  cities, 
Weary,  too,  of  the  sunset  tossed  from  their  spires, 
And  their  rigid  outlines — their  ardors,  their  scorns,  their 

pities — 
And  the  smoke  in  sooty  gyres. 

Their  gold  is  too  burnished  for  me,  and  each  window  flaming 

Is  a  vague  opal  set  on  a  lifeless  breast. 

— I  have  seen  opals  with  fire  beyond  my  naming, 

Where  the  surf  froths  gold  in  the  west! 

Nay,  but  yonder  those  languid  colorous  clouds  are  turning 
Idly,  like  dreaming  barques  on  an  enchanted  mere, 
And  all  the  western  towers  seem  to  be  burning 
WTarmly  and  clear ; 

And  this  is  beauty  you  cry.  .    .    .  Ah,  remember  those  places 
Where  the  gray  beach  shows  the  dimmed  end  of  the  land; 
And  the  phosphorescent  wash  of  each  wave  as  it  races 
Up  on  the  gleaming  sand ; 

And  the  moonlit  sails  .   .    .  And  still  you  laugh  and  deride  me, 
For  drowsing  here  in  the  twilight  so  indolently. 
Oh !  Though  the  dark  elms  were  wonderful  gods  beside  me, 
Could  I  forget  the  sea*? 


28 


MERLIN. 

A  LONELY  man,  his  head  among  the  stars 
Walks  on  the  clean  sand  white  beside  the  sea,- 
Merlin,  the  lonely  man  of  Camelot, 
Who  left  King  Arthur  and  the  tournaments 
And  decorous  garlands  and  the  sight  of  man 
Dear  to  him,  yea !  the  knights  and  pageantry 
To  walk  beside  the  waves  that  curl  in  foam 
And  sparkling  splendor  round  him. 

This  because 

His  vague  mysterious  power — alchemy 
Of  mind,  by  which  to  purest  testable  gold 
The  baser  man  he  strove  to  elevate 
Through  curious  kabala,  muttered  words 
And  formulae,  and  fiery  distillation 
Of  the  elixirs  red  and  white  (for  this 
The  allegorists  hold  to  be  the  sum 
And  substance  of  the  prime  materia, — 
Soul-purifier,  leaving  earth  to  rest 
As  't  was) — him  lifted  flaming  far  and  far 
Through  unimagined  distances  of  thought 
And  dream,  by  pathways  metaphysical 
To  God's  own  face.  And  he  had  seen  the  face 
Of  glorious  God.  And  God  had  looked  upon 
His  eyes. 

So  now  he  walks  beside  the  sea 
Alone.  And  nightly  chants  he :  "I  have  seen 
The  Moon,  and  far  beyond  her.  I  have  seen 
The  ringed  planets  curve  around  the  Sun, 
And  the  great  Sun  himself,  and  far  beyond 
Strewn  stars  and  stars  and  filmy  nebulae. 
Past  them  across  the  night,  too,  have  I  seen 
And  known  that  unapproachable  face  of  God. 
And  now  I  walk  alone  lest  man  should  see 
Divinity  reflected  from  mine  eyes 
Which  I  am  granted  only  to  behold." 

29 


Thus  Merlin.  And  the  waves  around  his  feet 
Break  in  a  fiery  phosphorescence,  while 
The  stars  above  are  flaked  in  fire  around, 
And  the  moon  floats  among  them  like  a  barge 
Of  whitest  silver  on  the  unrippled  mere. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOD. 

THE  organ  groans  laboriously.  A  hymn 
But  half  supported  by  the  listlessness 
Of  many  weary  voices  dwines  away 
Into  the  slow  dusk  shadows.  Overhead 
The  carven  cherubs,  nodding  sleepily, 
Smile,  half  disdainful ;  while  the  misty  light, 
Twisted  and  shattered  by  religious  panes, 
Transmutes  the  aisles  to  dusty  labyrinths. 
Silence — a  drowsy  murmur — then  a  man 
Pale,  bleached,  and  hazy,  steps  before  the  seats, 
Compelling  sleep  in  drowsy  monotones, 
The  while  he  queries  vaguely :  "Where  is  God  ?" 

I  softly  yawn.  .   .  .  Where  am  I  ?  .  .   .  Like  a  dim 
Unhappy  dream  that  dawn  turns  fugitive, 
The  arches  fade  to  nothing.  Far  away 
I  see  the  purple  gleam  of  hills  and  hills 
Dipping  and  curving,  graceful,  to  the  sea, 
Which  like  a  cerule  mirror  of  the  sky 
Shows  painted  clouds  and  sunset  and  pure  gold. 
Now  from  the  west  a  cool  breeze  lightly  fans, 
Whispering  songs.  Across  the  silver  shield, 
Bright  ever  widening  ripples  leap  away 
And  all  the  sea  flames  points  of  dancing  fire. 
Twilight  is  come.  Upon  the  cheek  of  dusk 
The  lovely  blushes  pale  and  disappear, 
Mantling  no  more  her  beauty  infinite. 
The  crumpled  clouds  assume  a  bluer  shade 
Against  the  lessening  orange  of  the  west, 
While  night  flings  free  her  robe  of  amethyst, 
Moon-clasped  o'er  the  sea.  Now  the  first  star 
Glints  softly  as  I  worship  silently.  .    .    . 

Where  is  it  ?  .   .   .  Was  I  dreaming  ?  .    .   .  With  a  weight 

The  intolerable  dullness  crushes  me. 

Again,  again  I  see  the  faded  light 

And  feel  the  grotesque  faces  looking  down 

31 


And  laughing  mirthlessly.  .    .    .  Still  the  parched  voice, 
Oppressed  by  its  own  impotence  drones  on 
And  heavily :  "This  is  God's  house !"  it  says. 


REPRISTINATION. 

THESE  are  not  God,  these  spired  mounds  of  stone, 
The  grinning  gargoyles  with  their  hideous  faces, 
The  clangorous  bells  that  heavily  intone 
Funereal  chiming — sacramental  places 
Cold  as  the  moon !  An  altar  richly  carved 
With  dead  dusk  saints — the  murmurous  drone  of  prayer — 
Atmosphere  still,  with  incense-wreathing  scarved — 
Dream  music — but  no  Deity  is  there ! 

No  Deity  is  there.  He  rather  lingers 

In  the  fresh  breeze  that  cools  a  lover's  cheek, 

Or  lays  at  midnight  graceful  silver  fingers 

Of  moonlight  on  the  ripples  of  a  creek, 

Or  shouts  His  chilling  loneliness  long,  long    . 

In  the  weird  cadence  of  a  madman's  song ! 


33 


"ARMA  VIRUMQUE— " 

COUCHED  with  Lavinia,  close  beside  the  hills 
That  are  to  cradle  his  empire,  grimly  waits 
Aeneas ;  and  he  hears  the  braggart  Fates 
Clamoring : — "Lo !  our  prophecy  fulfills 
In  this  scrawn  man,  this  woman  of  these  hills. 
From  out  their  loins  shall  come  a  race  of  men, 
Brazen  in  war!"  Lavinia  flushing  thrills, 
Snuggling  close;  then  laughs  and  flushes  again; 

But  he  looks  widely  southward,  and  he  seems 

To  see  great  towers  piling  by  the  sea, 

And  a  pale  queen  beneath  them.  Now  he  dreams 

Another  empire.  He  sighs  irritably: 

"O  I  had  loved  you,  proud  undestined  home !" 

But  the  wind  laughs  and  whips  dry  leaves  toward  Rome! 


34 


"ANCIENT  TO  OTHELLO." 

I  AGO  being  tortured  (runs  the  tale 
Left  incomplete  by  Shakespeare)  nearly  dead 
In  silence,  lifted  sudden  his  proud  head, 
Hair  streaming  loose,  tall  cheeks  aghast  and  pale, 
Eyes  bloodshot.  With  voice  still  a  sound  to  quail 
His  tormentor  Cassio,  terribly  he  said: 
"Draw  close  around  me,  ere  my  senses  fail, 
To  learn  for  what  my  venomy  shaft  was  sped !" 

They  closed  around  him.  He  brushed  back  his  hair 
From  brow  with  painful  hand.  Then  slow  he  moved 
His  ironic  lips,  half  rose  confronting  there 
The  gloating  faces, — swift  to  be  reproved ! — 
Then :  "Grammercy  for  this  reprieve — "  he  cried 
"To  die  in  peace!"  With  this  last  jest  he  died. 


35 


VIOLINISTS. 

HE  steps  before  us  all.  His  fingers  seem 
Flames,  and  most  supernaturally  white 
In  the  glared  brilliance  of  great  chandeliers, 
Glassy,  ornate,  that  swing  above  his  head. 
A  pause  .   .   .  the  while  he  seems  to  sway  and  sway 
Like  a  bright  flower.  .   .   .  Suddenly  he  stands 
Erect;  and  all  the  air  is  tide  that  flows 
Rhythmically  to  the  surging  of  his  song. 

.   .   .  Poor  crazy  fiddler,  starven,  whom  the  wind, 
Whimpers  around  in  that  gaunt  alleyway, 
Draggled  and  cold,  how  would  thy  shrivelled  heart 
Expand  for  but  one  glimmering  of  that  flame! 


A  CHINESE  PAINTING. 

THE  old  moon's  paling  lantern  wavers  low 
Above  the  shadow-forests ;  where  the  trees, 
Forming  a  ghostly  frieze 
Of  lifted  spears  against  the  vacant  sky, 
Stir  restlessly  and  faintly  to  the  slow 
Unquiet  shiver  of  the  tremulous  breeze. 
And  O,  how  ill  at  ease 

The  dim  place  is !  For  there  among  the  shades 
Of  leafy  vagueness  I  can  see  deep  eyes 
Burning  as  molten  planets  with  far  glow, — 
An  ancient  dragon,  twisted,  scaly,  wise, 
Coiled  round  a  treasure,  scorning  earthly  blades. 

I  draw  my  sword  like  some  old  mandarin, 

Fearsomely  creeping  out  against  the  foe. 

And  as  I  rush  to  strike,  my  heart  within 

Chills.  He  claws  snarling.  .    .    .  Suddenly  the  thin 

Veil  is  torn  back;  and  I,  half  sadly,  know 

That  this  is  but  a  dream  of  what  has  been — 

A  cracked  old  dragon  painted  long  ago. 


37 


THE  WHITE  ROAD. 

ON  !  Let  us  take  the  white  road 
That  swerves  toward  the  sea! 
The  white  road  that  swerves  in  dust. 
Like  a  serpent,  toward  the  sea! 

I. 

And  one  of  us  saw  a  peaked  roof, 
And  left  the  cavalcade 
Jaunting  along  through  the  hills, — 
For  the  hand  of  his  maid. 

Pale  ramblers  wreathed  in  the  sunlight, 
Blown  petals  drifted  the  wind, 
And  the  door  was  deep  and  dusk, 
— He  left  us  riding  blind ! 

II. 

And  one  of  us  looked  on  combat, 
A  king's  plume  dusty  and  frayed; 
— He  left  us  jogging  easily, 
And  the  sunlight  hardened  his  blade. 

The  trumpets  were  silver  challenges, 

The  ensigns  were  crimsoned  true, 

But  we,  we  rode  in  laughter 

Toward  the  sea  that  was  bronze  and  blue. 

III. 

And  one  of  us  knew  a  mart, 
And  the  droning  clamor  of  trade, 
Spread  silks  for  the  queen  of  a  Caliph, 
Amphorae  curiously  made. 

Gold,  gold  was  strewn  on  the  benches, 
Bezant,  shekel,  doubloon ! 
And  he  left  us  ambling,  ambling 
Toward  the  sea  that  is  chill  as  the  moon. 

38 


IV. 

But  some  of  us  rode  on 
Toward  the  sea  that  was  carven  jade, 
Toward  the  spires  and  peaks  of  the  haven, 
Most  splendidly  arrayed ; 

And  spires  and  peaks  were  phantoms, 
The  sea  was  a  waste  of  sand; 
Our  eyes  were  mocked  with  a  madness, 
Terribly,  scornfully  grand ! 

On!  let  us  take  the  white  road 
That  swerves  toward  the  sea! 
The  white  road  that  swerves  in  dust, 
Like  a  serpent,  toward  the  sea! 
But  0,  turn  from  the  white  road, 
Ere  it  drop  in  chill  to  the  sea! 


39 


SONG  FOR  SAINTE-ANNE  DES  MONTS. 

(Grande  Riviere.) 

OH  !  Are  the  Gaspe  woodlands  still  odorous  at  night ? 
And  does  the  river  wheel  between  most  vaguely  bright*? 
Perhaps  a  salmon  flashes  from  the  moonlit  pool, 
Shimmering  below  the  Northern  Light  and  cool,  cool,  cool. 

In  summer,  at  daybreak,  there  is  a  pleasant  song 
The  stream  hums  softly  as  it  flows  along 
Through  many  a  foam-white  eddy  and  foam-white  fall 
Down  to  the  great  sea,  that  knows  it  all. 

In  summer,  in  summer,  when  the  splash  of  rain 

Wakes  the  tranquil  clearness  into  life  again; 

And  the  stream  slips  round  each  elbow  under  dripping  leaves, 

— O  happy  is  the  lilt  of  the  song  it  weaves ! 

I  have  dreamed  of  it  in  grandeur — Have  you  seen  the  moon 
Bulge  behind  the  whipping  trees  in  early  June? — 
Where  the  river  hurries  'neath  them  in  blue  and  gold, 
And  the  rich  sky  is  white  with  stars  and  very  cold. 

Or  at  sunrise,  at  sunrise,  when  all  the  East  is  wine, 
Ruddy  for  a  king's  cup,  or  pavonine 
With  many,  many  colors — like  gorgeous  cloth; 
And  the  little  clouds  are  fringes,  or  spicy  froth. 

Have  you  seen  it  then  ?  The  dawn  gusts  have  crinkled  its  blue, 
And  the  leaves  that  overhang  it  have  opals  of  dew, 
And  the  day  is  filled  with  color — like  a  clear,  clear  dream, 
And  the  river  is  a  bright  sword  with  faery  gleam. 

Oh!  Are  the  Gaspe  woodlands  still  odorous  at  night*? 
And  does  the  river  wheel  between  most  vaguely  bright*? 
And  do  the  birches  shift  to  a  sylvan  tune*? 
And  the  windy  pine  branches  lace  the  lantern  moon'? 


40 


FOREST  CLEARING. 

HARD  by  the  stream,  where  two  hills  crouched  and  bent 
Close  to  each  other,  whispering  evil  things, 
— Leaves  shifting  on  them  like  the  flutter  of  wings — 
The  little  road  turned  rudely  down  and  went 
Sharp  to  the  left,  a  tortuous  descent 
Past  a  stripped  pine,  the  windy  sentinel 
Menacing  one  bare  arm  and  guarding  well 
This  naked  outpost,  shivering  and  rent. 

And  there  the  forest  broke.  A  bleak  hut  stood — 

Like  a  squat  toad — upon  the  gusty  plain, 

Fringed  by  the  stark  gaunt  striplings  of  the  wood, 

Whereon  adventurous  the  tawny  grain 

Pushed  up.  And  there  the  snarled  scrub  shrank  and  ran, 

As  though  this  were  the  vanguard  of  strong  man. 


THE  METROPOLIS. 

THE  way  grew  steeper.  I  uprose 
Past  ragged  cliff  and  eager  vine 
That  robed  the  tenuous  incline 
With  deepest  color.  Now  the  close 
Of  day  empurpled  each  ravine; 
While  all  the  hills  were  giants  old 
That  seemed  asleep.  Above,  the  sheen 
Of  deepening  sky  impelled  me  on 
To  climb  where  I  had  never  gone 
Before.  Then  sudden,  swift  and  cold, 
I  felt  a  wind  around  me  pressed, 
And  saw  the  vistas  fall  away 
In  tumbled  rout. 

And  now  the  crest 

Of  all  was  mine  .   .    .  and  over  there, 
With  gorgeous  touch,  an  idling  ray 
Made  splendid  in  night's  rippling  cloak 
The  dingy  mist,  the  city  smoke. 
The  breeze  grew  drowsy  as  a  prayer 
Scarce  formed  on  lips.  The  distance  flamed 
Irradiant  glory,  deep,  unnamed, 
A  most  majestic,  silent  dream; 
And  yonder  streaked  against  the  sky, 
Far  off  the  lights  began  to  gleam. 

So  all  was  lovely  here;  and  I 
Could  pause  to  view  it  and  to  muse : 
How  new  the  city  was !  Its  press, 
Its  crying  noise,  all  undefined, 
Had  vanished.  Now,  a  pale  recluse, 
It  blazed  against  the  night,  enshrined 
In  visions  I  could  never  guess 
That  it  had  known.  The  lights  entwined 
Their  earthlier  beauty  with  the  stars — 
The  Bear,  the  Hunter,  angry  Mars — 
In  wavering  points  of  lucent  fire, 
Now  lower  there,  now  higher,  higher; 

42 


Until  it  all  grew  pale  and  pale 

Before  the  Moon's  invading  wave, 

Indignant  prow  and  rounding  sail 

That  slashed  the  clouds,  triumphant,  brave! 

And  then  I  turned  around  and  went 
Adown  the  twisted  path  I  came, 
While  the  proud  chilly  barque  out  sent 
White  halos  of  transparent  flame, 
And  the  great  city  burned  the  sky, 
A  dream  of  color,  gloriously ! 


43 


WINDY  NIGHT. 

GREAT  crying  gusts — and  each  cloud  was  a  banner, 
Harsh  bronze,  cold  silver,  smirched  with  dripping  blue, 
Fantastic  torn,  wind-streaming — in  the  manner 
That  furious  standards  blaze  above  the  head 
Of  battle.  Now  a  hurricane  shook  through 
The  tortured  branches.  All  the  earth  was  dead 

Around — save  I.  No ! — There  the  dry  leaves  crackled ! 
And — Was  it  Death  himself?  I  trembled,  mad — 
A  crag-tall  figure  moved.  His  laughter  cackled, 
Crazy  with  echoes.  There !  Look  there !  He  strode, 
Trampling  the  pines  beneath  him  as  I  had 
Thin  brittle  grass.  The  forest  was  his  road, 

Down  which  he  trampled,  insolent,  rash,  swaying 

The  crushed  chill  slopes  with  his  affronting  feet ; 

Then  paused  awhile — the  wide-mouthed  gale  was  baying! — 

To  blow  his  purpled  fingers.  Bah !  The  cold 

Was  fierce  that  night !  A  senseless  whirl  of  sleet 

Maddened  his  pathway.  Terrible  and  old 

His  weathered  face,  storm-creased !  He  stopped,  and  flinging 

His  bulk  against  a  mountain,  clamored  loud 

To  all  the  blasts :  who  answered,  hoarse,  unringing 

While  the  soiled  night  raged  horrid  with  their  shout; 

Then  he  crashed  on,  erect,  gigantic,  proud, 

And  the  swirled  vapors  hid  him  in  their  rout ! 

Gone*?  Was  he  gone?  The  rent  clouds  raced  insanely; 

Foul  dusk  boiled  up,  all  turbulent  with  fear 

And  wildered  breath.  Yet  cold  revulsion  vainly 

Strove  at  my  heart.  For  suddenly — too  soon 

For  dread — the  frayed  mists  vanished.  White  and  clear 

Above  the  ragged  pines  was  blazed  the  moon ! 


44 


THE  WIND. 

THE  wind  is  full  of  poetry.  At  night 
It  whispers  songs  around  the  drooping  eaves. 
Sometimes  it  ripples  softly  through  the  leaves, 
Making  low  music,  delicate  and  light, 
Drifting  the  clouds  and  turning  to  a  bright 
And  starry  dream  the  sky.  It  richly  weaves 
A  colored  fable  no  one  e'er  believes, 
Winging  its  fancy  to  a  lyric  height. 

I  have  desired  to  sing  as  does  the  wind, 
Murmuring  placidly  among  the  trees, 
And  see  its  sights.  For  it  has  oft  reclined 
In  breathless  Eastern  cities,  where  the  breeze 
Comes  as  a  smile  of  God  from  gentle  seas, 
Refreshing  with  its  touch  the  feverous  mind. 


SONG. 
I. 

I  SHOULD  like  to  think  of  life  as  the  coming  of  quiet, 
— O,  a  growing  awhile, — then  rest  and  ardor  together, — 
A  strolling  afar  from  the  tide  and  its  choppy  riot, 
In  a  glory  of  April  weather ! 

II. 

I  should  like  to  turn  from  the  surf  and  its  spume  that  hisses, 
Finding  life  and  splendor  and  love  in  the  sleepy  hills — 
Where    the    sun-slopes    are    crammed    with    bright    bluebells, 

where  wonderfully  kisses 
The  breeze  with  a  calmness  that  thrills ! 

III. 

But  the  sea  is  stronger  than  all.  On  a  noisy  lee  shore 
My  heart  must  watch  the  foam  pile.  Life  must  be  for  me 
As  a  salty  blast  of  wind  by  the  stormy  seashore, 
As  a  frenzy  of  waves  from  the  sea ! 


SEPTEMBER  SONG. 

COME  with  me !  The  autumnal  moon  is  flooding 
Dead  rose  petals  with  silver  tonight. 
Come  from  within !  This  is  not  the  time  to  be  brooding 
By  the  hearth's  tremulous  light. 

The  marge  of  the  pond — in  June  there  were  lilies  drifting- 
Is  darkened  by  the  gusty  breeze ; 
This  is  the  miraculous  time  of  the  season's  shifting, 
When  the  leaves  turn  flame  on  the  trees. 

Come !  And  leave  your  songs  and  your  dusty  fancies 
To  crumble.  The  clouds  are  calling  you.  Haste  along ! 
What  need,  O  friend,  for  the  glamour  of  old  romances 
Now,  when  the  night  is  a  song*? 


47 


ON  A  GLOOMY  DAY. 

AID  April's  opening  buds  were  slashed  with  rain ; 
And  April's  hopeful  flowers  were  harried  back ; 
And  the  bursting  dogwood  dared  not  show, — 
Only  the  poplars  with  their  woe, 
And  the  willows  with  their  pain ! 

And  April's  glorious  singers  stifled  their  breath ; 
And  April's  shower  of  odes  were  uncomposed ; 
And  the  lyric  of  streamlets  could  not  be, — 
Only  the  ocean's  threnody, 
And  the  loud  waves'  promise  of  death ! 


PRELUDE. 

COME  with  the  quivers  of  light 
To  waken  the  soul  of  day ! 
Come,  come  away ! 

Dawn  is  softly  stirring  under  the  flaming  hills, 
Night  is  wearily  nodding  over  the  paling  hills, 
And  the  stars  have  fled  away. 
Whisper  a  song  of  morning 
To  startle  the  fleeing  night ! 
For  the  wan  blue  clouds  are  blowing 
And  the  sky  is  bright. 

Sing,  sing,  sing !  Sing  with  the  voice  of  the  years  : 
The  red  sun  creeps  o'er  the  hilltop  to  scatter  your  hopeless 
fears ! 


49 


PASTORAL. 

ETEN  !  Listen ! 
There  from  that  blossomy  spray  a-glisten 
With  crowded  yellow  forsythia  flowers, 
A  spurt  of  singing  throbs  out,  overpowers 
The  sloth  of  my  heart ! 
From  that  thicket  of  brambles  dart 
A  flutter  of  sparrows,  dipping  by ! 
And  up  in  the  clearness  of  clear  blue  sky 
Three  hoarse  old  crows  flap,  high ! 


SWIMMING  AT  NIGHT. 

JUST  a  race  in  the  dusk  around  the  hill, 
Past  two  tall  pines  that  fringe  the  moon, 
A  crackle  of  stones — then  a  tang  of  still 
Bay-pungent  air.  And  the  cool  beach  glows, 
White  as  the  stars,  beneath  my  feet, 
And  reflects  in  light  on  the  long  lagoon. 

I  walk  to  the  rim  of  the  burnished  sheet, 
— The  water's  touch  is  a  goddess'  hand — 
Then  the  splashy  wavelets  leap  in  rows 
As  I  swim  away  from  the  darkening  land ! 


WINTER  SEA. 

WHO  hath  not  heard  the  sea  on  windy  nights 
Mournfully  sob  a  sullen  threnody 
Around  the  coast  ?  Who  hath  not  heard  it  moan  ? 
Its  ceaseless  waves  that  sweep  before  the  gale 
Hammer  the  cliffs  in  sorrow  pitiless 
While  dusk  November  holds  the  iron  shore 
In  grasp  tyrannic4?  Yond  the  sea  gulls  shriek 
And  in  their  strident  cries  I  seem  to  hear 
Barbaric  voices  wailing  through  the  gloom, 
Mourning  the  ages :  old  Icelandic  ghosts 
That  weep  wild  sagas  in  the  thralling  mist 
Of  Leif  the  Lucky's  war  keels  long  ago. 


SONNET. 

THE  lucent  walls  of  Rome,  bards  oft  have  praised, 
Thronging  bronze-towered  on  the  sacred  hills ; 
And  in  some  hearts  surpassing  rapture  thrills 
At  Nineveh's  old  wonder.  Men  have  raised 
Vast  rhythmic  songs  to  Athens'  temple,  blazed 
Sun-golden,  as  a  coronal,  above 
Her  poetry  and  splendor  .    .    .  By  a  love 
Of  these  sure  beauties,  man  shall  be  appraised. 

But  O,  the  silver  foam  about  the  prows 
Of  Tyrian  ships  that  float  before  the  breeze 
Past  Sicily  and  onward,  over  seas 
Turquoise  and  lovely,  which  their  oars  arouse 
To  opalescent  glitter,  as  they  drowse 
At  sunset  through  the  gates  of  Hercules. 


53 


TO  A  PLATONIST. 

I  KNOW  you  love  to  wander  far  from  things, 
By  soul-paths  out  beyond  the  flaming  orbs 
Of  heaven.  Yes,  I  know  pure  thought  absorbs 
Your  splendor.  And  you  laugh,  come  face  to  face 
With  God,  at  earth — exultantly,  and  race, 
Wheeling  on  fiery  wings. 

But  oh,  oh !  walk  with  me  at  eventide 

Down  the  dimmed  street ;  look  wonderfully  with  me 

Upon  the  people's  faces.  You  will  see 

Man  grown  resplendent,  glorious,  divine, 

Man's  work  that  sheds  the  sunlight  like  soft  wine, 

And  holy  God  beside! 


54 


PEACE:  A  MEMORY. 

IT  seems  so  long ;  't  was  but  three  years  ago — 
Three  fleeting  years  of  sunshine  and  of  rain — 
When  it  had  not  begun ;  nor  all  the  pain 
And  hate  had  come.  The  world  that  now  we  know 
Was  yet  unborn.  The  mornings  come  and  go, 
The  air  today  is  just  as  soft  as  then —  <~ 
That  spring  three  years  ago.  But  ne'er  again 
Will  be  so  bright  the  summer's  hallowed  glow. 

And  yet,  perhaps,  when  all  the  strife  is  o'er,    o 
Such  of  us  then  as  still  survive  may  drift 
Into  those  idle  ways  we  knew  before 
The  bloody  years.  If  this  be  so  some  shift 
Of  unseen  wind,  I  pray,  shall  stir  and  lift 
The  mist  and  give  us  memory  of  war ! 

June,  1917. 


55 


/** 

PEACE. 

(June  28,  1919.) 

THERE  was  a  drawn,  mad  silence  in  the  room 
Where  grouped  forms  moved  as  shadows  quietly — 
Pale  as  the  fog  that  slides  in  from  the  sea 
At  dawn.  The  air  was  sodden — of  a  tomb — 
And  dull.  A  sable  judge  invoking  doom 
Upon  the  culprit  (So  he  seemed  that  sate 
On  the  proud  dais  of  the  victorious  state) 
Murmured,  and  two  ghosts  signed,  and  fled  in  gloom.  .   .   . 

And  there  were  other  things — unseen.  Vague  rows 
Of  naked  graves  that  stretched  across  the  lands, 
White  torn  homes,  and  dream-shattered  hopeless  hands, 
Starting  blind  eyes  that  groped  and  could  not  see, 
And — reaching  ghastly  arms  to  part  the  foes — 
A  mute  bare  cross  upon  Gethsemane. 


AFTER  COMBAT. 

HARK  !  Yonder  elm-tree  seems  to  pulse  with  singing 
That  fire  has  hardly  spared.  Hark !  Do  I  hear 
The  mavis-note  in  that  seared  bracken  ringing, 
No  trace  of  fear4? 

The  rank  grass  strives  to  hide  the  hideous  scourings 
Of  blundering  man.  The  e'er-immortal  earth 
Re-flowers  to  life — despite  unlovely  lowerings — 
In  clearer  birth. 

Was  it  a  dream — so  little  seems  regretted, 
While  more,  more  gorgeousness  comes  on  us  soon — 
That  I  saw  spearmen,  last  night !  silhouetted 
Against  the  moon*? 


57 


THE  WHITE  GOD. 


THE  WHITE  GOD. 

(Quetzalco-atl.) 

THE  great  prince  Montezuma,  swerving  back 
From  a  victorious  raid  on  Yucatan, 
— (In  this  his  serpent  standards  had  advanced 
To  Nicaragua  lake) — was  troubled.  He 
Had  heard  rude  murmurs  fanning  from  the  coast, 
And  whispers  of  rebellion  bruited  far, 
And  word  of  mad  forewarnings  wafted  far, 
On  every  gust  that  blew  from  Mexico. 

So  as  he  passed  through  Xoloc,  hastening 
To  Tenochtitlan  of  the  many  roofs, 
His  glistening  city,  all  his  mind  was  stirred 
With  turbulent  brooding ;  and  he  looked  not  out 
Upon  his  dusky  subjects,  gathering 
With  flowers  and  luting  to  adorn  his  path 
Of  triumph  to  the  capitol.  Within 
His  gold-encrusted  palanquin  he  sat, 
Despondent,  irritable,  while  his  ears 
Rang  with  this  gloomy  clamor :  all  has  gone ! 
And  as  the  crowds  cheered  closer,  he  recoiled 
And  sank  against  the  cushions,  crass  and  dull 
And  heavy,  and  his  vision  seemed  to  blur 
Into  a  streak  of  unreality 

That  confused  all  things  vaguely,  as  in  dream. 
Then  first  the  sunlit  towers  became  a  haze, 
Shimmering  and  dizzy;  then  the  hopeless  throng, 
A  sea  that  hammered  one  black  cliff, — insane, 
Surging  against  its  feet  in  spume,  and  broken, 
Hurrying  back  in  nebulous  cascades 
On  which  the  sunlight  flashed  and  turned  to  red. 
Until  at  last  new  waves  of  huger  bulk 
Rose  from  the  East  and  battered  hard  and  long, 
And  battered  hard  and  troubled  loud  and  boiled, 
Fuming  around  the  cliff  which  shivered,  rent, 
And  tottered,  and  then  fell.  And  all  the  rocks 
Fell  with  it;  and  the  sloping  mountainside. 

6l 


Then  Montezuma  woke  and  saw  he  moved 
Adown  the  flinty  causeway  to  the  isles 
Of  his  great  templed  city.  And  the  crowds 
Yet  seethed  around  him,  gliding  ever  near, 
Hovering  close  in  garlanded  canoes 
To  fling  bright  roses  at  his  feet,  and  cry 
"Live  emperor !  Live  conqueror !"  So  he, 
Exalted  by  their  rapture,  proud  arose 
And  shook  his  green  plumes  lightly  overhead 
This  sweep  of  luxuriant  color,  and  he  spoke  : 
"My  children,  thunderous  deeds  shall  come  of  you !" 
Then  he  passed  on  to  enter  gloriously, 
And  laughed  and  babbled  with  his  retinue, 
And  laughed  and  jested  more  a  man  than  king, 
Until  one  cry  disturbed  them  all,  bayed  out: 
"The  White  God  shall  return/" 

The  king  rebuked 

That  ominous  echo,  in  the  council  hall, 
Thereafter.  And  proclaimed  it  death  to  him — 
If  any  found — who  shouted.  Yet  the  wail, 
Mocking  and  mocking,  troubled  still  and  leered, 
Reverberant.  That  night  a  comet  flared 
Over  Quetzalco-atl's  shrine.  The  hills 
Shook  dully :  while  a  flaming  blazed  the  East — 
Whither  he  sailed  in  old  time.  And  that  cry  : 
"The  White  God  shall  return/" 

And  Montezuma 

Was  cowed  by  that  incessant  hovering  wail 
Of  the  end  of  things ;  and  knew  not  what  to  do. 
Until  Cacama  came  to  him — the  same 
Whom  he  had  lifted  to  the  eagle  throne 
Of  white  Tezcuco — and  he  said :  "My  lord, 
These  prophecies  have  raised  great  stir  against  you, 
And  against  me  as  friend  to  you.  For  all 
Whom  fear  has  ever  silenced,  now — damned  curs ! — 
Scheme  to  make  head  against  you.  Cempoalla, 
Cholula,  Puebla — these  will  cast  aside 

62 


Their  watery  bond  and  weld  by  insurrection 

Sure  faith  with  the  Tlascalans.  And  perchance 

My  brother  will  move  southward  to  assault 

Tezcuco,  hoping  in  the  ruin  of  all 

To  gain  himself  a  princedom.  O  these  times ! 

When  all  we  cherish  shivers  on  the  brink 

Of  an  unbottomed  cavern !  Aye,  my  lord ! 

Coyotes  yelp  around.  I  hear,  I  hear 

Their  coward  challenge  slink  among  the  hills, 

And  see  their  green  eyes  glowing  in  the  dusk, 

And  feel  their  breathing.  Snatch  a  brand,  my  lord, 

Sputtering  from  the  fire  and  scare  them  back, 

Ere  they  gorge  upon  our  carrion !" 

And  the  king: 

"Cacama,  I  did  well  to  give  you  rule. 
Now  teach  me,  from  your  inspiration,  how 
May  this  loud  storm  be  driven  from  the  sea?" 
And  Prince  Cacama:  "I  but  spoke  in  haste, 
Admonishing  you  to  fright  them,  petulantly. 
Then  would  they  herd  for  safety.  O  my  king, 
Let  me  recount  a  dream.  It  seems  therein 
I  read  a  parable.  Last  night  it  was — 
And  still  is  clear  as  glory — yes,  last  night 
I  saw  a  cypress  clinging  to  the  verge 
Of  a  tall  precipice  that  overawed 
The  Chalcan  lake.  And  as  I  looked,  a  gale, 
A  wet  tornado  gathering  from  the  Gulf 
Stormed  menacing  upon  the  chiselled  crests 
Of  other  hills,  and  muttered  threateningly. 
Then  thunder  clattered  hoarsely  like  the  wheels 
Of  ponderous  chariots.  Lightning  ripped  and  tore 
The  blue  banked  clouds.  But  still  the  cypress  stood — 
Its  leaves  a-quiver — only  these — no  more. 
At  last  the  wind  coursed  outward  from  the  vale, 
Tear-glistening.  The  thunder  droned  away. 
The  white  swords  flashed  more  vaguely.  And  again 
The  earth  knew  peace.  It  was  more  dear,  thrice  dear 
For  all  the  turmoil.  After,  I  awoke; 

63 


And  heard  the  dread  cry  clamor  through  your  halls: 
'The  White  God  shall  return.  Quetzalco-atl 
Tramps  in  the  fateful  East!'  And  I  arose 
And  came  to  you.  Dire  prince,  these  times  of  ours 
Are  grievous.  And  you  ask  me — how  shall  you 
Withstand  their  onset*?  Sire,  yon  tree  is  there, 
Sky-tracing,  lovely-shadowed.  You  must  stand 
Unmoved,  as  it  stood,  with  its  leaves  a-quiver; 
And  this  great  storm  will  clatter  into  distance ; 
The  earth  know  peace  again.  We  do  not  deal 
With  men,  with  men  alone — " 

Again  the  king 

Broke  in  to  query :  "This  same  tree  of  yours, 
How  shall  it  guide  me"?  Do  you  mean  I  stand 
Aloof,  unmindful  that  the  broils  of  men 
Topple  my  empire  ?  Do  I  read  you  well  ? 
Or  how?  Or  what?"  Cacama  swift  replied: 
"Its  leaves  a-quiver,  wise  my  lord,  I  said. 
On  this  may  hang  your  acts."  And  turned  away, 
And  left  King  Montezuma  on  his  throne, 
Perplexed  and  pondering, — and  he  sat  that  way, 
Perplexed  and  pondering,  till  the  sun  dropped  down, 
And  a  young  moon  climbed  brightly  overhead. 

Not  overlong  thereafter  he  convoked 
A  ponderous  council — Prince  Cacama  first, 
And  Cuitlahua,  his  own  warlike  brother, 
And  Nezahual-pilli,  a  priest  of  the  gods. 

And  all  the  while,  wave-slashing,  on  there  drove 
Ten  caravels  across  the  Cuban  seas 
Toward  Cozumel. 

For  Alvarado — he 
Later  called  Tonatiuh  by  the  men 
Of  Aztlan,  for  his  god-surpassing  frame 
And  lustrous  hair — had  hurried  back  before 
Grijalva,  bearing  rumors  of  a  land 
Of  gold,  perchance  great  fabled  El  Dorado. 

64 


And  later  when  Grijalva  came  he  spoke 
Of  the  great  Mayan  strongholds,  and  the  gold 
Curiously  worked,  and  showed  them  pendant  stones 
Of  intricate  setting.  And  he  said :  "My  lord," 
— This  to  Velasquez,  Cuba's  governor, 
Iron  of  brow,  who  swayed  the  vice-regal  rod 
As  though  it  were  a  sceptre :  leering  man — 
"My  lord,  beyond  this  land  they  pointed  north 
And  westward,  while  they  cowered  shiveringly, 
And  paled — if  these  men  ever  pale — and  howled: 
'Colhua!  O  Colhua!'— like  the  wind 
Restively  chafing  all  the  topmost  trees, 
Cypress  or  cedar ;  after  that  no  more 
Would  speak — as  though  it  were  a  sacrilege 
To  speak  at  all.  And  then  we  onward  moved 
Through  the  snarled  primal  forest,  while  the  scrub 
Grew  barbed  and  menacing.  Great  tortuous  groves 
Of  ceiba,  labyrinthine,  tangled  us. 
And  there  were  flowers  unknown  and  glorious. 
And  then  we  splashed  through  marshes  simmering, 
And  crossed  black  serpent  streams  that  interwound 
Among  the  slimy  roots  malarial ; 
Near  other  forest  cities.  Ever  all 
'Colhua!  O  Colhua!'  cried,  and  north 
And  westward  pointed — till  at  length  we  came 
To  a  last  river  deeper  than  the  rest, 
Too  deep  to  ford,  sea-moving,  languorous. 
Here  all  the  banks  were  oozy,  overhung 
With  dripping  vines,  entangled,  poisonous. 
And  'cross  it  thick  impregnable  undergrowth 
Twisted  and  thorny  barred  our  strong  advance. 
All,  all  was  evil !  And  behind  the  brush — 
More  evil  yet — I  saw  the  glint  of  spears, 
The  shift  of  plumes  that  rippled  in  the  gusts, 
The  brassy  ensigns.  And  my  guides  slunk  back 
Into  the  shadows  close  around  the  camp, 
And  quivered  terror-palsied,  and  breathed  out : 
'Colhua!  O  Colhua!'— and  (methought) 
Fearfully :  'Montezuma !' — hoarse  with  dread ; 


Then  pointed  north  and  westward  to  the  host 
That  held  the  farther  shore,  and  huddled  in 
Around  us.  So  the  night  was  passed  in  fear ! 

"And  when  the  dawn,  bespangled,  tremulous, 
Shone  on  the  trailing  branches,  tremulous, 
To  wake  the  captains,  lo!  the  host  was  gone, 
And  all  the  gaudy  jungle  hushed.  A  burst 
Of  windy  exultation  shattered  through 
Our    drawn   blanched    ranks,   while   our   swords    flashed   and 

blazoned 

Pale  lightnings  in  the  sunlight,  and  outrang 
In  surgent  thunder,  iron,  clamorous. 
And  now  I  was  uncertain  where  to  turn. 
Three  hundred  men  I  landed  with.  But  some 
Were  dead  beside  the  shore,  and  some  were  dying, 
And  others  feverous.  And  yet  that  dream — 
The  fitful  wind  had  blown  me — and  the  gold, 
And  the  far  whispers  of  a  jewelled  city 
Beyond — perchance  great  fabled  El  Dorado! 
Scarce  knew  I  where  to  turn?  By  faith!  I  knew 
That  night!  For  Captain  Alva,  foraging 
In  the  jungle,  chanced  upon  a  feathery  band 
Of  Mexicans,  accoutred  all  for  war. 
He  fell  upon  them  sharply,  imprisoning 
Their  leader,  a  plumed  cacique,  him  haling  in 
To  me.  We  could  not  speak  his  barbarous  tongue ; 
But  we  had  with  us  one — rescued  before 
By  Alvarado— who  had  lain  among 
The  Mayans,  a  prisoner  for  twenty  years. 
He  was  a  Spaniard ;  and  he  yet  recalled 
Brokenly  the  speech,  Castilian,  of  his  birth. 
Through  him  we  talked.  The  chief  was  loath  to  tell 
Of  his  dark  business  and  the  empery 
Of  that  proud  king  he  served.  But — having  learned 
From  the  poor  Spaniard  torturing  would  avail 
Little  against  his  slavish  loyalty — 
We  tried  persuasion,  told  him  of  our  king 
Past  the  engirdling  sea,  and  urged  that  he 

66 


Would  tell  us  of  his  lord,  that  we  might  go 
Spain-wards  to  bear  the  brother  monarch  tiding 
Of  this  rich  Western  king. 

"The  Mexican 

Grew  flame-eyed,  pointing  astounded  at  the  sea, 
And  cried :  'Quetzalco-atl !  Dost  thou  come 
After  these  years  ?'  And  pressed  in  adoration, 
Telling  us  all.  Of  Montezuma,  lord 
Of  a  sea-stretching  empire,  and  the  cities 
Servile  to  him,  and  princes :  young  Cacama, 
Scarce  less  to  him,  who  served  him  faithfully. 
And  how  one  city,  ringed  by  snowy  hills 
Down  which  the  blue  streams  filtered  wanderingly, 
A  coronal  of  marble,  Tenochtitlan, 
Was  proud  beyond  all  cities,  and  absorbed 
The  whole  realm's  glory;  silver  from  the  veins 
Of  dusky  caverns,  opals,  amethysts, 
Gold  from  the  spattering  streams,  and  luxury. 
How  from  a  western  ocean  was  borne  up 
Spice  from  the  invisible  isles  behind  the  mist; 
Tamarinds  from  the  tropics,  from  the  Gulf 
Fishes  all-golden  for  the  Emperor's  fare. 
And  how  Tlascala  stood  alone  against 
The  conquests  of  this  king,  fierce  proud  republic 
Girdled  by  him,  unbowed,  within  her  mountain 
Like  a  dun  rattlesnake  hissing,  coiled  to  strike, 
And  venomous.  For  Montezuma's  armies 
Were  many-numbered  as  the  sanguine  flowers 
That  make  his  vale  a  troublous  mere  of  blood — 
Armored  and  gaudy,  showering  with  arrows 
And  spears  the  whole  broad  country  and  the  gods 
Of  who  opposed  them,  till  Tlascala  sole 
Defied.  And  that  the  gods  of  Aztlan  were 
Blood-terrible  and  ravenous,  who  all  clamored 
Intolerably  for  death  and  sacrifice 
And  rutilant  altars,  charred  with  misery : 
Save  one — Quetzalco-atl — he  had  passed 
Across  our  sea,  but  one  day  would  return, 


White  visaged ;  and  how  we  must  be  the  sons 

Of  this  god.  And  perchance  our  king  was  he. 

And  then  he  said  the  nearest  vassal  city, 

The  river  washed,  Tobasco,  heard  report 

Of  warriors  moving  and  our  sun-bright  trappings 

And  thundery  missiles.  She  was  fitting  out 

Imperial  expedition — myriad  strong — 

To  oppose  our  progress,  to  subdue  and  drag 

Our  captains  to  the  altars  to  allay 

The  terrible  portents  which  the  Lord  of  War 

In  wrath  had  hurled  on  Aztlan,  while  he  shook 

The  heart  of  Montezuma  with  his  ire. 

(For  ghastly  stars  had  blazed  across  the  night, 

Firing  the  streaky  heavens,  and  those  mounds 

Wherein  the  dead  were  buried,  gaped  anew, 

Hell-yawning,  and  discharged  the  fleshless  ghosts 

On  palsied  Tenochtitlan,  bellowing 

With  fear  and  frenzy  as  the  inhabitants  read 

God's  supernatural  scrawl  upon  the  clouds, 

Presaging  ruin!)  And  they  deemed,  he  said, 

The  fiery  Tobascans,  that  suddenly 

To  seize  and  slay  us  all  in  sacrifice 

Might  regain  favor  with  the  god.  They  lay 

Nearly  a  sea  league  onward  and  were  drawn 

Into  array  of  combat.  Did  we  move 

Forward — on  this  their  hope  was  set — destruction 

Would  blaze  upon  us  from  an  ambuscade. 

"How  might  our  hundreds  plunge  against  that  throng, 
My  lord  Velasquez?  What  could  I  do  else 
Than  this  I  did?  For  summoning  a  council 
Of  Alva,  Alvarado  and  the  rest, 
I  made  them  known  of  all,  acquainting  them 
With  this  I  tell  you.  We  deliberated 
Gravely — without  decision.  Till  there  came 
Returning  scouts,  who  told  us  on  a  rise, 
Wooded,  beyond  the  river,  there  were  thrown 
Multitudes  ranged  in  combatant  align; 
And  that  they  skirmished  with  an  outpost,  where 

68 


One  Spaniard,  being  wounded,  sickened,  died 
Horribly  with  fierce  torture  on  his  face 
Blue-black  with  poison.  After  this  no  doubt 
Remained  in  us.  We  hastened  to  withdraw, 
Embarqued  anew,  and  set  our  prows  toward  Cuba." 

"O  for  a  heart  of  flame !"  Velasquez  cried. 
And  then  no  more,  but  held  him  silently 
From  vehement  outburst,  chewing  at  his  fingers 
Savagely.  Till  at  length  the  powder  flared 
With  sudden  explosion.  And  the  governor's  soul 
Raged — most  insanely.  And  he  stood  erect 
While  tremulous  lightning  flickered  from  his  eyes, 
And  a  gale  shuddered  the  tempestuous  hills 
Less  harshly  than  his  voice.  "Grijalva,  I 
Entrusted  much  to  you.  And  you  slink  back, 
Dishonored  and  a  coward !  O  fool,  fool ! 
With  victory  half-compassed  to  retreat — 
Stupidly.  Coward !  I  have  wasted  much 
On  friends.  Perchance  in  this  a  venturous  foe 
Will  serve  me  better.  Take  the  faint-heart  off, 
Soldiers,  to  prison.  Summon  me  Cortez, 
That  fortunate  ruffian  valorous  at  best !" 

And  as  they  passed  they  almost  hear  him  murmur 
"Gold !" — like  a  dream,  and  start  within  himself 
Too  nervously.  And  twitch  his  yellow  thumbs, 
And  again  murmur  "Gold !" 

That  night  Cortez 

Came  stealthily  to  him;  and  he  addressed 
The  rebel :  "Cortez,  you  have  been  my  foe 
Irreconcilable  through  many  years, — 
Seditious,  slanderous, — I  will  speak  you  frank — 
Treasonable  to  Spain,  disloyal  to 
Her  king ;  but  above  all  things  valorous ! 
A  thunder-brand  in  Cuba,  devastating; 
Hateful  as  the  dun  wolf  that  wantonly 

69 


Raids  the  weak  foothill  outposts,  pitiless ; 

But — beyond  all  men  ! — ever  valorous ! 

Touching  rebellion,  I  forgive  you  that. 

Little  I  need  forgive,  since  you  have  been 

Untrammelled  by  my  enmity ;  and  touching 

Your  Catalina — there  I  could  not  yield, 

For  honor — you  have  married  her,  so  I 

Am  free  to  act:  I  give  forgiveness  too. 

For  this  return :  that  you  equip  a  fleet, 

— I  sharing  in  the  maintenance, — and  profit — 

To  carry  war  against  the  western  empire 

Of  Aztlan  that  Grijalva  has  found  out!" 

And  Cortez  answering:  "Forgiveness  keep 

For  those  who  crave  forgiveness.  Yet  you  speak 

Fairly — for  you,  Velasquez.  So  I  yield 

To  you  in  courtesy.  This  night  I  ride 

To  my  plantations,  mustering  my  men 

For  conquest.  Swift  returning  I  shall  come 

With  warriors  and  gold  to  bear  you  out 

In  this  tremendous  enterprise  of  iron !" 

Then  strode  away.  And  in  the  quivering  light 

Velasquez  sat — as  in  a  sun-spilled  cave, 

Mountainous  with  gold,  and  all  the  dusk  swirled  round 

His  senses,  spattered  golden  where  the  stars 

Were  gold  upon  the  deepness  of  the  night. 

Then  two  days  after,  Cortez  hurried  back 
With  warriors  and  gold — and  the  small  haven 
St.  lago,  cutting  back  among  the  hills, 
Grew  glistening  with  life.  Its  hollowed  cup 
Filled  to  the  brim  with  life — adventurers, 
Gold  questers  from  the  island  San  Domingo, 
Slavers  and  soldiers,  ruffians  of  fortune, 
Brigands — and  pompous  priests ;  for  this  high  mission 
Was  a  crusade,  and  many  a  sorry  native, 
Benighted  in  idolatry  and  evil 
And  desperate  worship,  would  be  won  to  light 
And  to  the  Cross.  The  expedition  gained 
In  prestige  and  glory.  And  the  caravels, 

70 


Cloud-stately,  moored  beneath  the  enclosing  hills, 
Chafed  at  their  cables,  tugging  to  be  free. 

But  all  the  while  Cortez  more  haughty  seemed, 
As  might  become  a  princeling.  And  Velasquez 
Grew  restless  and  uneasy.  So  the  foes 
Of  the  new  captain,  sensing  cautiously 
A  chance  for  treachery,  whispered  in  the  night 
Persuasive  words ;  said  Cortez  would  be  king 
In  Mexico.  Or  if  not  king,  would  rob 
Velasquez  of  his  primacy.  Already — 
They  could  confide — the  leader  imperious  grew, 
And  insolent,  and  despising  of  the  power 
Of  Cuba's  governor.  These  whispers  crept 
Envenomed  to  Velasquez'  credulous  ear ; 
Then  in  a  flaw  of  anger  he  cried  out 
Against  the  adventurer.  And  these  enemies, 
Stealthy,  of  Cortez  played  upon  the  fury, 
And  pressed  him  to  remove  the  proud  command, 
Giving  the  fleet  to  them. 

But  fortunately 

Young  Lares  and  Duero,  councilors 
Of  state,  discovered  this  new  mad  decision. 
They  hurried  to  Cortez,  and  bade  him  fly. 
And  he,  the  brave,  despised  not  listening ; 
Nor  obdurate  was,  but  thought  of  Mexico. 
So  secretly,  ere  dawn,  he  hoisted  sail 
Darkly  above  the  phosphorescent  bay. 
And  at  the  sunrise  bellowed  a  farewell 
To  Velasquez  and  turned  seaward  suddenly. 

And  so  it  came,  wave-slashing,  that  there  drove 
Ten  caravels  across  the  Cuban  sea 
Toward  Cozumel. 

And  at  this  time  the  king 
Convoked  his  council — Prince  Cacama  first, 
And  Cuitlahua,  his  own  warlike  brother, 
And  Nezahual-pilli,  a  priest  of  the  gods. 

71 


And  when  they  came,  he  breathed  them  the  ill-ease 
That  festered  in  his  soul — the  hideous  dream, 
Bat-winged,  that  flittered  duskly  through  the  night 
Down  all  the  timorous  archways  of  his  mind; 
And,  more  than  all,  that  quaver  of  despair : 
"The  White  God  shall  return/" — and  cried  to  them 
Distractedly :  "I  know  not  what  to  do. 
Gladly  I  would  forget,  most  gladly  would 
I  clatter  away  in  a  burst  of  ridicule 
These  nightmares.  But  my  hour  for  mirth  has  passed. 
Ironically  the  favor  of  our  gods — 
Leaving  a  blasted  trail  too  like  the  passage 
Of  an  outrageous  army — sweeps  along 
To  lure  another  victim  with  its  hope, 
And  then  to  blot  him  most  destructively, 
That  promise  of  hope  consumed.  I'm  like  a  hawk 
Half  wounded  by  a  shaft's  inaccuracy, 
Who  flutters  on  awhile,  at  last  droops  down, 
Wracked  by  more  torment  than  the  torturing  arrow's- 
His  little  hurt  become  the  death  of  all ! 
O  misery,  misery !  Cacama,  you  have  been 
A  comforter  and  prop  to  my  misgivings 
Ere  now.  Read  you  my  heart  *?  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

And  young  Cacama :  "Lord,  you  haste  to  move 
With  ill  control,  perchance  to  your  undoing, 
In  what  is  but  an  apprehended  dream ! 
Sorrow  enough  in  life.  Make  not  you  dreams 
Uncomfortable  pain,  that  are  the  solace 
Alike  of  challenging  youth  and  testy  age. 
Make  not  of  dreams — !  Pour  not  so  glorious  strength 
In  maddening  the  disconsolate  heart  of  yours 
Too  sorely.  You  will  drive  it  fierce  to  bay ; 
And  then  the  whole  will  crumble !  I  who  bore 
First  whisperings  of  turmoil,  beg  you  wait ! 
Wait,  and  then  wait,  my  lord !"  But  Montezuma 
Smiled  at  his  prayer,  and  thus  indulgently  : 
"Ha !  Youth  can  live  on  this !  and  breathe,  and  thrive; 
Drink,  draw  repose,  and  surer  manlier  strength. 

72 


You  have  said  well — not  wisely.  Look !  Awhile, 
(And  you  have  said!)  first  whispering  of  upheaval 
You  carried  me.  I  troubled,  and  you  came. 
And  now  you  tell  me  peace.  No !  I  must  hold 
First  words  the  more  inspired.  Cuitlahua, 
What  say  you  to  my  dreams  ?" 

His  brother  replied: 
"I  only  hold  a  sword  in  my  right  hand. 
I  only  wear  a  buckler  on  my  arm. 
If  there  be  need  of  else, — why,  turn  from  me ! 
Seek  you  some  shrewd  adviser.  Yet,  my  lord, 
Why  race  Time  toward  the  future  to  confront 
The  impending  pain  of  years  *?  You  hold  a  sword, 
Wind-sharp  to  strike !  And  if  a  man  oppose, 
Then  let  him  feel  its  blade, — and  if  a  god, 
Fear  not  to  try  him  too.  Stand  easily, 
Until  the  hour  shall  challenge.  Then,  my  king, 
Strike  hard,  strike  swift,  and  I  will  strike  for  you !" 

Him  Montezuma:  "Counsel  much  the  same 
Flares  from  your  laudable  fire.  But,  O  my  brother, 
This  heart  misgives  me.  Nezahual-pilli, 
Read  you  the  terrible  auguries  of  heaven 
And  bear  right  witness  of  the  future.  I 
Misdoubt  my  hopes.  Say  what  the  gods  have  scrawled 
In  skyey  script,  imblazoned  'mong  the  stars !" 

(And  Cuitlahua  unto  Prince  Cacama, 
Aside :  "In  verity,  now  shall  we  hear 
A  welter  of  disaster ;  for  these  priests, 
If  they  be  versed — as  this  knave  surely  is — 
In  priestly  ways,  have  learned  to  make  of  fear 
Their  heritage  of  weal."  And  Prince  Cacama, 
Likewise  aside:  "So  is  it,  as  you  say.") 

And  Nezahual-pilli  the  while  was  still, 
Eyes  rolled  to  heaven,  with  dumb  lips  and  blank 

73 


Expressionless  ghastly  visage,  in  a  trance — 
Thence  subject  to  the  subtlest  influence 
Of  inspired  word.  At  length  he  dashed  aside 
His  stupor — though  in  a  coma  strangely  still — 
And  spurned  his  tragic  silence  and  cried  out 
With  frenzy — god-impassioned  into  song: 

"Not  in  a  wattled  and  dreamy  barque, 

— So  have  the  gods  cried — (Hark!  O  hark!) 

Drifting  the  quiet  indolent  seas ; 

Not  on  the  pale,  pale  Western  breeze 

Wafted, — with  prayers  and  the  favor  of  man, — 

Quetzalco-atl's  voyage  began 

Sunward  across  the  seas  ! 

"There!  Do  you  hear  them*?  The  hissing  of  snakes! 

Silence !  O  silence !  The  stillness  breaks 

As  man,  the  fool,  drives  forth  in  rage 

His  saviour  god.  Lo !  the  heritage 

Shall  be  reeling  woe  when  the  god  returns ; 

For  his  wrath  is  a  sputtering  brand  that  burns, 

The  god  man  drove  forth  in  rage ! 

"Bearing  a  gift  of  reason  he  came 
Over  the  hills  with  an  aureole  of  flame, 
And  wheat  in  his  hand,  and  twisted  gold, 
And  a  touch  of  fire  to  charm  the  cold 
From  man. — Scourged  forth  his  flight  begins 
In  a  poisonous  craft  of  serpent-skins, 
He  that  brought  wheat  and  gold ! 

"O  fools !  Stark  fools !  with  your  lashes  hot 
Flaying  and  driving  you  knew  not  what! 
With  a  sword  in  your  hands  and  chill  blue  steel 
In  your  senseless  hearts !  Will  you  never  feel 
The  presence  of  God  *?  Too  late !  He  comes, 
Murderous  to  the  throb  of  drums, 
The  god  you  have  shown  with  steel !" 

74 


Swift,  like  a  sob  outwept,  his  clamorous  song 
Subsided,  and  a  quietude  suddenly 
Surged  in  for  few  white  moments ;  till  the  priest 
Aroused  from  his  dazed  silence,  thundering: 
"Yes !  By  the  gods !  'T  is  so !  Quetzalco-atl 
Departs  in  rage.  In  rage  he  shall  return 
Shortly.  And  give  this  empire  to  the  sword 
Of  his  pale  children.  On  the  eastern  sea 
Their  ships  are  pressing  boldly — even  now ! 
The  end  has  come.  Your  empire  falls  in  dust, 
And  rust  shall  rivel  all  those  palaces 
Of  yours,  O  king!"  Then  with  a  convulsive  moan, 
He  sank  upon  the  floor,  and  wept,  and  wept. 

After  that  wail  of  anguish,  Montezuma 
Blanched  for  a  moment  as  the  priest  had  done, 
Blanched,  looking  vacantly  about  the  room 
Wherein  the  council  sat.  But  suddenly 
His  color  blazed  back.  Then,  wheeling  to  his  brother, 
He  said :  "And  I  shall  need  your  sword  some  day !" 
Then  faltered  (while  he  looked  upon  the  priest) 
Then  laughed,  and  to  Cacama  laughingly: 
"Poor  superstitious!  These  be  prophecies? 
I  like  your  counsel  better."  And  no  more. 


Off  Yucatan  that  night  there  fluttered  in 

A  wildered  ship,  storm-draggled,  wearily; 

And  after  her  nine  others.  And  they  dropped 

Most  wearily  their  anchors,  and  drew  in 

Like  sleeping  swans,  close  to  the  Mexican  shore. 


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